In The Language Of Flowers
by TheSilentPen
Summary: 'Red Chrysanthemums. They mean 'love' or 'I love.' Rachel Berry stumbles into a florist shop, searching for the perfect gift for her Fathers' anniversary. She meets Quinn Fabray, the part-time worker, who will change her life and the way she looks at flowers forever. AU.


**Disclaimer:** I do not own Glee or any of these characters.

**A/N:** So I had another round of prompt me on Tumblr, and **this is ONE of two prompts** I selected to write on. This story comes from a prompt I fulfilled for my first official tumblr friend **dispiritedaway, **or Jordan, who prompted "_Quinn works at a flower shop and Rachel really likes buying people flowers. She's really into the meanings of flowers as well, so when she initially goes to said shop she's asking Quinn about the meanings of all of them. The first set of flowers are for her fathers for their anniversary, second are for her teacher, etc. etc. play this how you will. She starts going to the shop more frequently, buying more and more flowers just to talk to Quinn, and eventually she runs out of people to buy flowers for. Naturally Quinn falls for Rachel, because she's adorable and ecstatic and perfect, and the last set of flowers have to be gardenias…"_

So this is for you, Jordan! I hope you enjoy it.

In fact, I really hope EVERYONE enjoys it… review if you get the chance, please.

* * *

**In The Language of Flowers**

_TheSilentPen_

* * *

Your Fathers would be married for 25 years today, you realize as you check your agenda during first period Spanish Language.

25 years of living together, of sharing the same home, of sharing the same dreams, of sleeping together in the same bed.

18 years of raising _you_ with all the love in their hearts after searching for a suitable surrogate for several years. 18 years full of laughter, of kissing scraped knees, the sound of their voices blending to a soft, crawling lullaby.

18 years of selfless love.

It was hard to find men more deserving of adoration and gratitude than Hiram and Leroy Berry. Hard to find a couple so in love with each other and so in love with their daughter.

You can never remember a moment when your Fathers were not in love. They spent their time teasing each other, exchanging soft, meaningful glances, and telling each other 'I love you' at every turn.

And though Hiram and Leroy would yell and shout at each other (their explosive fights could often make your 'diva storm outs' look like a little toddler thrashing its legs and crying feebly) they never stayed angry at one another long and the reconciliation that came with it lasted even _longer_ than the argument (it was sometimes _disturbing_ how annoyingly lovey dovey they could be).

You _knew_ you were lucky to have such amazing parents.

You only hoped you could have that same sort of selfless, all-consuming love someday.

It didn't have to be perfect. Perfect things were boring and had little room to improve. Perfect things weren't dynamic, did not respond.

Imperfection, you thought, was the most beautiful thing in the world. It showed character and vulnerability. Promoted heart and a fierce determination to improve.

And that's exactly what you wanted from love in your life—heart and determination. A love so determined that it could outlast the pains of one-too-many fights, of distances, of time, and your flaws.

A love so wonderful so as to accept your faults as _something to be loved_ and cherished… as loving little quirks rather than annoyances.

A love wonderful enough to last 25 years and those that stretched endlessly beyond.

But till then, you would study your fathers' relationship. You would study and celebrate it till the day _you_found love.

Part of celebrating that love, you decided, would start today.

You had never made much of an effort beyond saying 'happy anniversary' to your Fathers before you rushed out the door, eager to make it to the choir room to put in extra practices (as great as the acoustics were in your soundproofed bedroom/exercise room/recording studio, you still like to spend time in the choir room). In fact, you'd never really thought much of their anniversary at all.

But perhaps with the recent and rather disastrous _crash_ of a relationship with Quarterback and co-Glee Captain Finn Hudson, you found your Fathers' marriage that much more sacred, that much rarer.

Finn had been your first love, ever since the first day of Freshman year.

You had been a small, boisterous girl with a big voice and even _bigger_ dreams of someday taking Broadway by storm. You carried a pocket-sized edition of the RENT script in your purse, a PDF of Funny Girl on your cell phone, and had an extensive playlist (sorted accordingly by year and impact) of Broadway's most influential shows.

During the night, you dreamt of big stages and awards speeches, in the morning, you daydreamt of attending Juilliard School of Music, and in the afternoon, you _lived_ and _breathed_Glee Club with your entire.

Your life revolved around performing and making others happy _through_ your performance.

And then Mr. Schue brought Finn to Glee and everything changed.

Finn sung _one_ line in a rather unpracticed, shaky tenor, and you _lost_ yourself over him.

He'd been the first _decent, handsome_ looking boy in Glee Club… your first real taste of the McKinley Elite.

And he was so _close_, fallen from his place amongst the popular, artificial upper castes. He was so _close_, yet still holding onto that ledge by his fingertips.

And if you could grab onto _him…_ Have _him_ pull you both back up to the summit of popularity…

You'd never have to worry about slushy facials again.

Never have to worry about being teased or being ridiculed.

You'd have the most eligible boy on campus on your arm, and by doing so, become the most wanted _girl_. You'd have a jumpstart to fame. A fragile, innocent love with a 'leading man' you could take with you to Broadway.

Finn Hudson was _perfect_.

And so you went after him.

You pinned over him endlessly, followed him during passing period, and literally _threw_ yourself at him during one of her 'mandatory' one-on-one vocal rehearsals.

Finn, at first, resisted. He was apprehensive, slow, and unreceptive toward your advances.

But as time passed and Finn realized that _yes_, he could, in fact, do no wrong, he became increasingly wanting of your attentions.

You became the Golden Couple of McKinley High. Finn Hudson, Quarterback of the football team that never one a single game. You, the annoying, social pariah with the big voice and the only _clear_ chance of making it out of Lima.

You were an unlikely pair, yet you complimented each other well. Finn's childish behavior rounded off through your constant scolding until it tapered off into nothingness. You became a little less outspoken in your desires to reach Broadway.

Dance classes became date days.

Days spent sharpening vocals and recording videos were spent crudely making out against some random wall.

You focused less and less on Broadway and _more_ on Finn.

_Finn_ was your life.

But as time passed, Finn _changed_ and you stagnated.

Finn had realized you had placed him on so high a pedestal, you could no longer fault him for anything he'd done. He could have skipped a dinner date in favor of playing video games, and you wouldn't have faulted him for it.

He used it to his advantage.

They dated for two years, through Junior, and the cusp of Senior year.

When Puck, however, uncovered that Finn hadn't just been seeing _you_, but _Janice_ and _Taylor_ for a year solid, lost it.

He cornered Finn against the lockers the very next day and introduced the Quarterback's face to his fists, resulting in scabbed knuckles on Puck's part (you gratefully disinfected, bandaged, and kissed by them) and a broken nose and bruised face on Finn's part (which you didn't give a damn about).

And you?

You, for your part, make sure to deliver a good slap to Finn's purpled cheek and a vicious repertoire of break up songs, starting with "Gives You Hell" and ending with Megan Slankard's "Too Bad You."

After several weeks spent in Puck's basement drowning your sorrows in cases of beer and learning the basic controls of 'Call of Duty" to take out your aggression on poor digital soldiers, you feel as right as rain once more.

You'd learned your lesson.

After your rather… unpromising love history, you were determined to show your fathers your appreciation for all the love they shared with each other and with you.

'_But how?_' you muse to yourself as you fingers against the steering wheel, waiting at the light.

How could you possibly show them? Anything you could do for them would be shallow, silly, and unworthy of representing their love.

You jump as the person behind you lays on the horn, eyes flickering up toward the turn signal, waving your hand in apology as you twist the wheel to turn.

You sigh as you head into the lot of the Lima Bean, throwing your keys into your purse with a slight frown to your lips. Grabbing your cell phone, you head toward the door, shivering in the early winter cold. Your teeth chatter as you begin to walk toward the modest little coffee shop.

A sweet, cloying perfume drifts to your nostrils, making your eyes snap up. They drift about the parking lot before settling on a modest, cramped establishment.

A vibrant array of reds, blues, and purples shock your eyes through the glare of the glass. Flowers of all sorts stand on tables, potted, arranged, and displayed in the open layout of the store.

At the heart of the glass door with its gleaming, stainless steel handle, '_Fabray's Ways: Florist and Flower Boutique'_ stands out in curling, fluid, elegant emerald script.

Captivated, you take small steps toward the door. Your mitten-clad hand gently grasps the metal, the chilliness seeping through the fabric to your palm.

Maybe _this_ was the answer?

It had to be. You'd never seen the shop before and suddenly, on the day you needed something to give your Fathers most, it was here?

You had to believe a _little_ in fate, despite the fact it hadn't been kind to you in the last short, eighteen years of your existence.

Without further hesitation, you pull open the door, hearing the distant chime of the shop bell as you step inside.

Warmth floods to your cheeks, a final bite of cold air nipping at your heels as the glass settles back into place. You wipe your boots against the floral print mat, dusting the snow off your shoulders.

You stride further into the shop, swiping your gloves from your hands and flexing feeling back into the stiff tendons. The intoxicating perfume that tingled your nose earlier fills your nostrils as you take a deep breath.

Brown eyes sweep across the shop, with its skylights flooding in hazy, snow-tinged sunlight and warm, light green walls. Flowers of all sorts rest in white bins, solidly built into the floor, vibrant with all manner of color despite the lifelessness outside the shop. The sound of trickling water falls like music across your ears.

You take several steps toward a bin of dusty lavender flowers, fingers playing across the soft petals, a smile on your lips. What beautiful flowers… perhaps these would be the ones?

"Hold on, just a minute!" you start as a voice calls out from behind the counter. "I'll be with you in a moment!"

There is a dim clatter through the white, molded archway behind the register. Several moments later, a young woman (there was no way in Hell a man had _those_ curves) stumbles through, arms laden with several boxes of flowers, face hidden behind the mass of color.

You stride forward, shoving your gloves into your pockets as you steady the load in the woman's hands. "Here, let me take some of those for you. Just let me know where you want them."

"Place them on the counter," the woman grunts, fighting the stack of flowers. "I'll deal with them later."

You take two boxes nearly ready to fall from the woman's hands, pivoting around to place them on the available countertop.

The other half of the unnamed woman's load falls upon the counter, pale hands drawing back to mop sweat off a previously unseen face.

The first thing you notice is the striking gold color of the stranger's hair. The strands fall about a delicate neck, artfully cut into jagged layers. A small, delicate nose (such a contrast to your harsh, Jewish features) stands chiseled into delicate, noble features covered in soft, alabaster skin. Choppy, golden bangs fell into the most stunning pair of golden emerald eyes You had ever seen.

She's beautiful, this woman. Someone you can see modeling fancy clothes in a magazine or belonging to a royal family in one of the dozens of romance/adventure novels that you regularly indulged in.

She's so_painfully_ beautiful, despite the fact she shouldn't be so beautiful in a white polo shirt tight against her muscular curves, a green apron, mud-soiled jeans hugging taut, athletic thighs, and a pair of black, worn Chuck Taylors on her feet.

Your mouth goes dry, your heart pounds against your ribcage, your palms are sweaty…

And inside, you think "_fuck."_

Because you know what this means.

You've played this game before _so many times_.

Whenever something starts like this, it ends _badly_.

It's this sort of game that starts with attraction, continues with dating and enamored smiles, and ends in tears, heartbreak, and several loads of icy cold vegan comfort food.

You're not _ready_for this so soon after Finn.

There has to be _some_way from stopping this.

'_Aaandddd I've found it,'_ you think dimly to yourself as a small, golden crucifix twinkles against the pale expanse of the woman's chest.

'_She's probably one of those hometown beauties with a handsome boyfriend,'_ you shove your hands in your pockets, biting down on your cheek.

"Thank you for the help," the woman says, dark, rosy red lips curving to reveal two rows of perfectly straight, pearly white teeth. She leans against the counter slightly as she continues. "Welcome to Fabray's Ways. Any way I can help you today?"

"Yeah," you shake your head slightly before nodding toward the flowers. "I need to pick up some flowers for a special occasion."

"Like…?" the woman prods.

You swallow. "It's my Dads' anniversary. They've been together for 25 years and I'd really like to congratulate them."

"Alright," the woman sits up smoothly. "Did you have some in mind?"

"Those purple ones over there," you say, pointing.

"Those?" the woman's brow furrows as she strides over, checking the blossoms. "That wouldn't be a very good idea." She smiles at your confused frown. "That's Barberry."

She waits a few moments more before she chuckles huskily. "Barberry means sourness of temper. If you gave your Dads Barberry, you'd be calling them grouches."

"Oh," you say, cheeks turning a light shade of red.

_Of course_ flowers meant something. Roses meant everlasting love.

You just hadn't thought that flowers meant anything _beyond_ that. Or well, really, you hadn't studied the use of _other_ flowers in depth.

"It's alright," the girl chuckles. "Most people that come into the shop don't really know much of the language of the flowers. That's what we're here for."

The woman's eyes scan the shop, steely green before lighting on dark, red blossoms. She pulls up a healthy stack. "Red Chrysanthemums. They mean 'Love' or 'I Love.' It's not a traditional flower in the United States to give to those you love but…"

She smiles. "But your fathers are probably unique, just like the Chrysanthemums."

You smile back softly before pulling your wallet out of her purse. "I'll take them."

The woman grins before nodding, taking the flowers up to the register, pulling a bouquet bag up and snapping it open with a flourish. Steady, trained fingers begin to arrange the flowers.

"I haven't seen your shop around here before," you say, eyes flickering about the small shop, with its quaint, humble atmosphere. "Are you new here in Lima?"

"The shop is new," the woman answers easily, trimming the stems slightly. "It's my sister, Fannie's shop. She's from San Fran. I work here part-time after school."

"Really?" Your brows rise. "Which school? You can't go to McKinley."

"Carmel," the girl answers with a slight smile in your direction. "My sister went to McKinley… Warned my parents that it was a Hell hole and that I ought to be sent somewhere else. So Carmel it was."

"McKinley isn't that bad," You lamely defends.

Well, it wasn't bad if you were beautiful, popular, and could get all the jocks to eat out of your hands. Otherwise, McKinley could be a right Hell if you couldn't take the taunting, the gossiping, and heavy loads of slushy getting splashed into your face on a daily basis.

The woman, as if sensing your lie, cocks an amused eyebrow in her direction. "I suppose. To reach her own, then." She measures out string. "Your Glee Club is great though… I saw you guys at Sectionals. Great Mamma Mia! set you had."

You freeze as laughing, emerald eyes flicker up to take in your stunned countenance. "Especially your rendition of _Honey, Honey_."

Your eyes widen, cheeks reddening slightly as you stare down at the granite. "I…I'm glad you enjoyed it. But your school has a _much_ better show choir than ours. Vocal Adrenaline is really something."

"Vocal Adrenaline," the girl cuts the string, tying the stems together carefully, "is full of self-obsessed pricks who gawk at themselves in the locker room mirrors all night, preening. They're soulless idiots who can't look beyond their latest tans and newest cars."

"Your group _feels_ when they sing," the girl cuts a deep, red and gold ribbon, measuring it. "There's passion when they say the words… in the way they move.

"Especially you," she wraps the flowers in the bouquet bag, presenting them to you. "You sing like you're wearing your heart on your sleeve. That's a hard thing to do…" Gold eyes flicker up to connect with shocked brown. "Be vulnerable."

Fingers brush against each other softly as the girl releases the flowers. The dull 'ring' of the register ringing out in the silence.

"Five dollars flat," the girl says with a gentle smile.

Digging through your wallet, you place a single bill flat on the counter before returning it to your purse. "Thank you for the help…"

"Fabray," the woman smiles brightly. "Quinn Fabray. And I was glad to help you….?"

"Rachel Berry," you say softly.

"Rachel," the name falls from the blonde's lips smoothly, sending shivers down the girl's back. "Well, it was a pleasure to meet you, Rachel. I hope your Fathers enjoy the flowers and if you ever need help finding more flowers, be sure to come back."

You nod. "Of course. Knowing me, I'd probably choose a flower to call someone a whore or telling them to fuck off with my luck." Your cheeks turn an unbearable shade of red. "Pardon my French.

Quinn chuckles. "You're really something else, Rachel Berry…" She shakes her head. "And really, I think you're safe. There's not a flower alive that means of those things, as far as I know."

"And you're the expert."

"Of course," the smile gentles about the edges. "But please… do come back, You. I'd be glad to help you again."

"Alright," you nod. "Alright."

And as you leaves the shop, you can't help but feel something tug at your chest.

Feel the symptoms you'd felt earlier burn and change.

Attraction gives birth to deep interest.

The sweat in your palms subsiding and drying away as you grow more comfortable.

The pound of your heart strengthening with every glance in her direction.

And you swore as the final clang of the door sealed itself into the warmth of the shop and left you, alone and cold in the freshly fallen snow.

Because you know this.

This is a crush.

And it's _much_ worse than it had _ever_ been with Finn.

* * *

To say that your Fathers _loved_ the flowers would be an understatement.

You presented the Chrysanthemums to them as soon as you got home, unprepared for them to jump on you, kissing your cheeks and singing you praises well into the night.

At your suggestion, they looked up the meaning of the flowers and nearly lost themselves in tears and proceeded to praise you well into the next few weeks for your thoughtful gift. They coveted the flowers and acted as though there could be no greater gift on the face of the Earth.

It made you feel like you'd made a _little_ bit of a difference. That you'd at least shown them a _bit_ of the love they'd given you. That you appreciate their relationship.

The Chrysanthemums sat proudly in the rotunda near the front door, displayed on a modest mahogany table until they finally began to wilt after several weeks of superb watering.

After they died, your fathers pressed them between the pages of their favorite books respectively, laminated them, and cut them into bookmarks.

Your ventures with flowers, however, did not stop with your Fathers' anniversary.

No, they extended _much_ further beyond.

Over the next several months, you find _some_ excuse to visit _Fabray's Ways_ every other week. Sometimes, you need to get flowers for a friend's birthday (Santana hadn't taken too well to the bright bunch of Acacia's you'd given her as a 'friendiversary' present. In fact, she'd chucked them at your head and screamed 'what the fuck is _wrong_ with you, Berry?!' whilst Brittany stood around, watching her angry girlfriend try to take off your head with music stands and flowers), for teacher appreciation (you don't understand why Mr. Schue turns utterly _pale_ when you present him with Pink Roses for '_Thank You For Being In My Life'_), or simply to have flowers to lay around the house.

Every time you visit, your conversations with Quinn become longer and longer.

You learn that Quinn, like you, is a Senior in High School hoping to escape to doldrums of sleepy Lima, Ohio and make it in the world (her ultimate goal is to get accepted to Yale in New Haven, Connecticut and become a famous actress in New York or Hollywood).

You learn that Quinn used to be a Cheerleader before quitting her sophomore year after the Cheer Coach began using illegal performance enhancers. That Quinn loves photography and that her room is _plastered_in photos of candid shots she's taken over the years.

You learn that Quinn's sarcastic. That she likes to tease you for even the _smallest_thing ('I can't believe you stalked your teacher home, cleaned his bathroom, _and_ cooked him supper,' she laughs, wrinkling her nose cutely) and then apologize for it later, eyes sparkling beneath the cheap fluorescents of the shop.

You know that Quinn is kind. That she'll always offer you something for a headache you complain about immediately after you say something about it. That she'll staunch the blood from the puncture wound from the thorn of a wicked rose, suck on the finger, and wrap it gently in torn cloth of bandages.

You know that Quinn used to have a pierced nose, eyebrow, and lip from her 'rebel days' her junior year after her parents divorced. That her hair had been died a deep pink and that she smoked every day for an entire quarter because that's what her Father _hated_.

Russell Fabray was not a kind man. He drank habitually and spent a good portion of his time drunk before his family.

To the rest of Lima, Russell was a man of God. He attended church regularly, gave sermons, preached to the young, did community service in the local jails, and ran the local charity in addition to donating generous sums of money to the less fortunate.

His daughters, Frannie and Quinn, were the light of his life and his greatest joy. Frannie had been a _perfect_ child. She'd been prom queen, Cheerio captain, and gone to Stanford to graduate with honors from law school, gathering a lucrative career practicing Family Law.

Quinn was the golden child. Beautiful, soft-spoken, devoted Catholic, and a chastity queen. She was Russell's ultimate prize, even above his beautiful yet silent wife, Judy. Because Quinn was smart, Quinn was wholesome, Quinn was _perfect_…

Until one day when he caught Quinn on the couch at home, lips locked and clutching desperately at the person poised above her, body trapped and writhing under the attentions Vocal Adrenaline Captain Harmony Hugdens.

Russell was _furious_.

Though he'd been prone to bouts of anger, he'd never done anything terrible. Russell had never been a violent man.

At least, not until that point.

Not until he discovered his little girl was _gay_.

He threw Harmony off his daughter and in a blind rage, began to beat and verbally abuse Quinn. His fists fell on her, raining blow after blow on her defenseless body.

Until Judy cracked him upside the head with an empty whiskey bottle.

Russell was sent to jail, where Judy served him divorce papers and a restraining order.

Quinn recovered after several days in the ICU for a cracked skull and bruised lungs.

You'd been in disbelief for several moments as she told the story as though telling a bedtime fantasy. Your hands searched her face for any remaining trace of a cut, a bruise from that day a year ago.

"I'm alright now," she says, smiling at you softly, holding your hand in her own. "It was difficult for a while, but I _really_ am fine now."

"But he was your _Father_," you say softly, worrying your lip. You could never comprehend how a father could hurt his child, much less someone as kind or as gentle as Quinn Fabray.

Your _Fathers_ would never do it.

"Exactly," she says. "He _was_ my father. And some part of him always will be. At least… biologically. But we were all miserable with him, Rachel. And he was too set in his ways to change." She grasps your hand. "At least this way, we're all safe and happy."

"Do you ever miss him?" you ask.

She smiles sadly. "Sometimes… but then I remember that if I hadn't stood up to him… if he weren't gone, I wouldn't have met most of my friends…" She squeezes your hand.

"I wouldn't have met _you."_

And you're grateful for that.

Grateful to have met Quinn Fabray. Grateful that you walked into the shop to find flowers for your Fathers.

But you're _not_ grateful to have these _feelings_.

These feelings that were so easy to give into with Finn. That were so easy to get over once you told yourself that you _had_ to get over him.

Because now, whenever you're with Quinn, your heart beats a little faster. You feel a little less steady on your feet.

This _feeling_ is a little more permanent. A little bit deeper and more complicated than the last you felt it.

Because Finn was easy to love because he was _expected_.

He was everything safe. Every bit the sweet, dopey hometown boy that any girl would love to have. Your golden boy, your first love. What you settled for, everything worth having.

And he's everything Quinn is _not_.

Because Quinn is your best friend. Quinn's the one you go to when someone does something stupid at school, when you need a little extra help on a test, or a little extra advice on something.

Quinn's the person you talk about Broadway with. The one you act like a complete idiot with and air out your dirty laundry (you remember her laughing wildly at you when you told her you'd sent Sunshine Corazon, one of her classmates, to a crack house in order to get rid of her).

If you lost Finn, you'd get over it. You _did_ get over it.

You don't know what you'll do if you lose Quinn over your stupid feelings.

So you try to swallow it up. Try to hide it behind false smiles. Try to hide it behind too-long hugs and longing stares masked as quick glances at the clock.

But it quickly becomes a problem when _Quinn_ starts to look at you differently. When her fingers graze yours longer than normal, when she lingers in your hugs whenever you leave. When there's a strange little glint in her eyes whenever she looks at you. Something happy.

Something in love.

You think your mind is playing tricks on you, and you try to hold on.

You try to ignore it.

But there comes a time when it's just _too_unbearable. You can't take it anymore.

Because at some point, it's going to explode.

Something has to give.

_You_ have to.

So you do some research online and look up the _perfect_ flower for Quinn. The perfect flower for what you're feeling, and quickly find it after a quick Google search.

The _gardenia_.

A soft, white-green flower (they match the soft emerald starbursts in Quinn's eyes, you note as you smile at the picture), simple, elegant, and beautiful.

Just like Quinn.

They mean secret love. Mean joy, purity, and _love_.

They're _perfect_.

So you walk into _Fabray's Ways_with a smile on your lips, hands shoved into the pockets of your jeans.

Quinn's sitting at the counter, snipping away at a vase of clichéd red roses, no doubt for some awkward young boy hoping to impress his girlfriend on their first anniversary.

Hazel eyes snap up from the ribbon held in delicate fingers as a slow, beautiful smile spreads across Quinn's lips. She leans forward on the counter as you come closer. "Well, hey Rachel. What can I do for you today?"

"I came to look for flowers for someone special," you say confidently.

The smile on Quinn's lips wavers a bit and becomes more artificial. "Someone… _special_, you say?"

"Yes," you reply. "I'm going to tell her something _very_ important, so I need the right flowers for the job."

"Oh," Quinn's voice is weak. Her eyes dull slightly, flickering down to the granite before she smiles again, half-hearted. "Right… so then… can I get you some roses…? Some red carnations?"

"Oh no," you lean forward. "No. I don't need your expertise for this one. I've done the research special for this one. I need a very _particular_ flower, Quinn."

"Alright then," she looks down, breathing in sharply before flashing that same artificial smile. "What can I get you?"

"Gardenias," you say. "A whole bouquet of Gardenias with a light green ribbon to match her eyes.

"After all," you continue, smiling softly at her, "she's such a _beautiful_ girl. The most beautiful girl I've ever met. I wouldn't want the flowers to detract from her loveliness."

Quinn wordlessly retreats into the back, returning with a bunch of the desired flowers. She works mechanically, putting together a lovely bouquet, ringing you up, and handing the flowers to you. She swallows heavily as she watches you clasp the flowers in your hand. "Good luck with it. I hope she likes it." She begins to retreat to the stockroom.

"Wait," you grab her arm. "Quinn… can you tell me the significance of a Gardenia?"

"Rachel," her voice is tired. She shakes her head, trying to pull away. "Rachel, you researched this… you… you don't need _me_ to tell you."

"Tell me," you say solidly, holding her tightly. "_Please_ tell me."

She struggles against you for a moment, unwilling to look at you. Her fighting dies down after a moment as she stares down at her toes, trembling softly.

"Love," she says quietly. "Secret love."

You quickly bisect the counter to stand in front of her, pushing her chin up with a gentle hand to look at soft, brown eyes. You gently hold the bouquet up presenting them to her.

"I hope you like them," you say softly, pushing them into her hand. "After all, I've got something _really_ important to tell you."

Quinn's eyes widen slightly as she stares down at the flowers, then back up at you. The Gardenias drop from her hands as they shakily come up to cup her mouth. You hear her gasp. "_Rachel…"_

"You're my _best friend_, Quinn," you say softly, reaching up to take down her hands. "Ever since I walked into the shop several months ago, you've always been _special_ to me.

"Whether you're teasing me about my lack of flower knowledge," you laugh, "or you're just _talking_, I've always felt something for you… So I wanted to do something _special_ to tell you that I _love_ you.

"I love you _so_much," you say cupping damp cheeks in your hands. "I love you... and… well… I just _needed_ to tell you."

She's silent, staring at you with glittering gold and emerald eyes. The colors shift every few seconds and you feel squeamish under her steady gaze.

Your hands begin to fall after several minutes, your confidence fading by the minute. Your eyes fall to the ground, ashamed. "Quinn… I'm so…"

"Don't apologize, Rachel," her voice is smooth. A pale hand rests atop yours on her cheek. You feel her lips curve up slightly.

She kisses the palm of your hand lightly and watches as your lids flicker, struggling to keep open at the sensation. "That's… this is the _sweetest_thing anyone's ever done for me._Thank you_."

Her lips connect softly, sweetly with yours. They move smoothly against the chapped surface of your lips, tasting of mint and a hint of chocolate.

As Quinn pulls from you, there's a slight smirk on her lips. She leans forward, trapping you against her with her arms about your neck. "I love you too, silly girl… But next time you get flowers for me, _please_ tell me they're for me so I don't think you're off romancing some other girl."

"Oh yes," your eyes roll playfully, "Get me some roses for my Mistress and all the girls I see on the side."

"Mmmm, you're not allowed to have a Mistress," Quinn murmurs against your cheek, littering it with soft kisses.

"And why is that?" you breathe.

"Because your _girlfriend_ will be very mad," she presses a soft kiss to the smooth column of your throat, a soft whimper bubbling forth from your lips as she sucks lightly, "if she finds that you've been gallivanting around with a bunch of _whores_."

"I'll refrain from keeping a harem," you bite back a groan as she nips at your pulse softly, "if my girlfriend will grant me another kiss."

"Hmmm," Quinn smirks, looking up at you. "A small price to pay."

"Indeed," you muse.

* * *

**A/N:** So that's it. Sooo... now that you've read it, I bet you can see that empty, blank box at the bottom... You see, it needs reviews to live. So save the little box at the end by putting in some words about the story and pressing submit to send them to a desperate author :) **Please review.**

Thank you :)


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